


Broken Promise

by AZGirl



Series: The Immortals [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family of Choice, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5133920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos promises himself that he would do whatever was necessary to keep their brotherhood from fracturing in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 20 March 1844, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this is an AU, the idea for which Celticgal1041 inadvertently gave to me. I hope you will give it a chance. Enjoy!
> 
> Historical Notes: These are denoted by an * and explained at the end of each chapter. At times I did change historical facts to fit my story, but for these notes, I have made every attempt to get my details correct. If I have incorrectly noted something, please let me know and I will make changes. 
> 
> Spoilers: The television show and novels are fair game.

**ooooooo**

“ _To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers…We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time_.” ~~~ Clara Ortega. 

**ooooooo**

 

**Chapter One: _20 March 1844_ , Part I**

Long ago, Athos had developed the habit of reading several newspapers and magazines each week. He had subscriptions to several of them, but his newspaper of choice was the _Gazette*_ , which had begun publication the year after d’Artagnan had come into their lives. Back then, due to his duties as a Musketeer, he’d read it only sporadically, but once he got settled into the first of his new lives, he read every issue he could get his hands on. 

These days, despite the hundreds of newspapers that have come and gone in the intervening years, he still reads the _Gazette_ , likely because of sentimental reasons more than anything else. Of the four of them, he is the only one who regularly reads any newspapers. He feels that keeping updated on what’s going on around Paris and the world to be important for their long-term ability to stay in the city and hidden in plain sight. 

As time goes by, it continues to get more and more difficult to remain in Paris. He fears this relatively new technology that is able to capture an image of anything the photographer* desires. He knows that there are some drawings of at least one of his friends and wonders when a portrait will be taken with the new technology. Already, he thinks these images will make it more difficult for them to change their identities* in the future. 

They needed to be more careful as technology continues to evolve by leaps and bounds; it was making hiding in plain sight more and more of a challenge. For the first 100 years or so after their lives as Musketeers had ended, it was relatively easy to move around and live semi-anonymous lives. With industrialization and the more recent wars and revolutions, came the necessity to be even more vigilant about their identities – real and assumed. 

Of course, if they weren’t more careful about the professions they chose, then it wouldn’t matter anyway. They would be caught and experimented on by the very physicians and surgeons that Aramis now works with. 

Athos was the one who usually choose a profession of no great consequence. Through careful management of his and his brothers’ funds over the last 100 years, he has ensured that they never had to work if they didn’t want to. However, being the men that they are – always soldiers at heart – they can’t abide being idle, so they usually take up occupations well-suited to their abilities, including those gained over the many years that they have been alive. 

For now, he was a professor of military history at one of the colleges and sometimes teaches the finer points of swordplay at the local _salle d’armes*_. And in this lifetime, d’Artagnan has followed his example, though the younger man teaches a couple of different foreign languages instead. They had discovered long ago that d’Artagnan has a knack for languages, even more so than Aramis, and he’d lost track of how many his friend was fluent in at this point. It definitely came in handy for those times when they’d had to leave the country for a few years. 

Since the Revolution of 1789, Aramis tended to vacillate between professions that healed the body and healed the soul; at the moment, he had a more earthly calling. Porthos amongst the four of them has undertaken the most varied assortment of occupations, and is currently attempting to be a playwright and author. Neither he nor d’Artagnan sees the two of them as often as they would prefer. 

All four of them currently live in Paris, but their diverse schedules made it difficult to get together more than once or twice a month. He sees d’Artagnan the most and is glad at least one of his brothers remains close by. They still practice swords fairly often, and it is one of his true joys in life to spar with someone of talent almost equal to his own. At this point, so many years after the first time their blades had clashed, he now wins just slightly over half of their bouts. He looks forward to the day when they are truly equal in that regard, and is confident that it would happen in the not too distant future. 

Lately, he has been so busy with commitments that he could not get out of that he’s only had time in the mornings to read one of his newspapers, choosing the _Gazette,_ of course. Now he was finally free to catch up on the others that had piled up on his desk, which sat near the window at the back of his large sitting room. Even with skipping the theatre and concert reviews of most of the papers, it has still taken him a while to catch up to all but the past weeks-worth of issues as well as a couple of weekly magazines he’d not gotten to yet. 

After a small midday meal, he decides to continue reading and was about to begin catching up on the current day’s issue of _Le Siècle*_ , a decent newspaper with excellent writers. Unfortunately, they had started publishing serial stories on their front pages, something he felt lessened quality of the paper overall. The serial story has certainly seemed to jump in popularity the past couple of years. It was a disturbing trend and he mostly ignored that part of the paper, preferring to read literature and other fiction in book form.

He picked up _Le Siècle_ and began to read, debating with himself over whether or not to read the past issues he still had by his reading chair. When he sees that there was no theatre review and instead another banal installment of some _roman-feuilleton,_ * he starts to turn the page but a certain, very familiar word catches his eye. The next full line of text secures his attention, and after that, it would have taken a direct hit by a canon to keep him from finishing reading the rest of the text, which covered the bottom third of the first two pages. 

_Les Trois Mousquetaires*_

_IV. L’Épaule d’Athos, le baudrier de Porthos et le mouchoir d’Aramis*_

_“D’Artagnan, furieux, avait traverse l’antichambre en trois bonds et s’élançait sur l’escalier…”*_

As he reads, he realizes that he has missed a few installments but, in that moment, it does not matter. He races through the text, hardly taking in the details, yet knowing that the events being described did not happen exactly as portrayed. He turns the page and reads until the end where his finds the name of the author: Alexandre Dumas.

 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

**Historical Notes, Chapter One** : 

**_-Gazette_** : Beginning in 1631, it was the first weekly newspaper published in France. It survived several name changes and the Revolution, only to end publication around 1915. In 1844, it was known as _Gazette de France_. Digitized issues are available online.

**-Photography** was invented in the mid-1820s, with the oldest surviving photograph taken in 1826/27.

**-Identity Documents:** In use in France since the 1800s. Photographs started being included in passports in the early 1900s.

**_-Salle d’armes_** : Fencing school.

**_-Le Siècle_** : Daily newspaper published from 1836 to 1932. Digitized issues are available online through the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF).

**_-Roman-feuilleton_ :** A novel published in installments, usually in a newspaper or magazine. The first was published in 1836, with the height of their popularity from about 1842 to 1848.

**_-Les Trois Mousquetaires:_** The Three Musketeers was published in serial form in _Le Siècle_ from 14 March through 14 July 1844. The story was published in six parts, each with a varying number of chapters, but in most books, the chapters are numbered 1 through 67 with an additional epilogue. ( _Note:_ I’ll be using the book format to number the chapters.)

**_-IV. L’Épaule d’Athos…d’Aramis_ : **[translation] _The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis._    ( _Note:_ I have decided to go with the French chapter titles as I’ve noticed a couple of translation differences amongst the English versions.)

**_-“D’Artagnan, furieux… sur l’escalier…”_ :** [translation] “D’Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed the ante chamber at three bounds, and was darting toward the stairs…” ( _Note_ : This will be the only chapter where I quote the text in its original French.) 

**ooooooo**


	2. 20 March 1844, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions regarding this story, please feel free to ask. I now have tons of head canon for this Immortals AU.   
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Two: _20 March 1844_ , Part II**

Athos had desperately hoped that he would not see that particular name, but at the same time, he was certain it would be there. He honestly does not know whether he should be flattered or furious by what he’s just read. He does, however, definitely have the urge to punch the author the next time he laid eyes on the so-called writer. Regardless, he is most certainly _not_ amused. 

How dare the man use his life as well as the lives of his best friends for fictional fodder – and for a serial no less! Granted, the events were portrayed differently enough that they are more fiction than truth, but that did not excuse the use of their real names, regardless of the fact that they weren’t currently using them. 

He sighed and laid the paper down on his desk, thinking back to the day that he, Aramis, and Porthos had met d’Artagnan. It happened so long ago, and yet it was as if it had just happened yesterday. D’Artagnan had come to the garrison to kill Athos, the man he believed was responsible for murdering his father. The two of them had dueled for a time before all three of them had been needed to subdue the lad. 

In this rubbish story, d’Artagnan was said to have encountered them one by one, offending each in turn, and making appointments for duels set one hour apart. The partial truth of the duel couched in the fiction of the shoulder wound, baldric, and handkerchief was utterly ridiculous. It made each of the four of them sound like caricatures of themselves, and trivialized one of the most important moments of their lives. 

Athos got up from his desk and went to his liquor cabinet. Pouring himself a glass of Armagnac brandy, he shifted so that he could see out the window and onto the street below. As he sipped his drink and watched people make their way past his house, Athos considered what he was going to do about this latest mess. 

He was angry and knew that when the others found out, they would look to him for guidance. At this point, he was undecided, and not wanting to let his heart rule his head, he decided that he needed more information before making a decision. 

Tossing the remainder of his drink back, he swallowed, enjoying the burn of the alcohol as it went down his throat. Athos stepped away from his window and headed towards a table placed in center of a seating area featuring two comfortable chairs separated by a settee. He had intended to do some work at his desk preparing a lesson, but knew that he would no longer be able to give it his full attention. 

Putting the empty glass down on the ground next to his chair, he goes through the pile of newspapers and pulls out all of the issues of _Le Siècle,_ putting them in order from oldest to most recent. When he sees that the oldest issue does not contain the first part of the story, he goes through the pile again and is relieved to find the missing piece of the story. Grabbing his glass, he gets up and pours himself some more Armagnac, thinking that he would probably need the alcohol in order to make it through the story. He grabs the current issue off of his desk, lights a lamp, and stokes the fire in the fireplace, before sitting back down in his chair. 

With a heavy sigh, he picks up the first part of the story, _Préface*_ , and begins to read. With the first few lines of the chapter, his eyebrow raises to his hairline in reaction to what he was reading, and he didn’t think it would lower of its own accord until he finished catching up to the current day’s installment. 

_Memoirs…1625… father and mother alive…a letter…Milady…Tréville and the ‘garrison’…*_

The way people he knew were described and how their circumstances were presented was peppered with truth, though never a whole truth from one sentence to the next. 

He wondered how d’Artagnan was going to feel when he saw that his father’s fate in the story did not match and was kinder than real life. Would his young friend forgive Dumas for the scene with the mother, a woman who had actually died years before he had come to Paris? D’Artagnan’s fiery disposition and impulsiveness had been tempered over the years, but would this misuse of his personal history stoke those banked flames? Athos honestly had no idea how d’Artagnan would react, and in his case, with the mentions of Milady, he didn’t really know what to think or how to feel. 

What if this story were to become well-known and popular? Except for in private, would any of them ever get to use their real names again in the future? Would they be forever stuck with names which were not their own and that took effort to remember to use in public? Having been so busy with his students this past week, Athos hadn’t yet heard how well _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ had been received by the general populace. 

Perhaps Aramis would know; as a physician, the man still preferred a private practice to working at a hospital like the Hôtel-Dieu.* As a result, Aramis hears a lot of gossip and other general news each day, something else that has helped them keep one step ahead of anyone who might find out their secret. It was highly likely that Aramis would be the first of his friends to find out about this damned story. 

D’Artagnan was the only unknown quantity. There were several avenues which the younger man could hear about Dumas’ most recent effort. He wondered how much longer it would be until the Gascon found out. 

Given the way their friendship had evolved, d’Artagnan tended to come to him for advice or when he needed his now rarely-stoked temper soothed. D’Artagnan often repaid the favor by bringing him out of his melancholic moods, and keeping him from drinking the entire contents of his liquor cabinet and wine cellar. He tended to be the one to help d’Artagnan out of his own, fairly rare, black moods. It was odd when you thought about it, but their friendship worked despite their differences in background and age. 

In the past more than 200 years since the incident that had made them essentially immortal, Aramis and Porthos tended to go off on their own for a time, but d’Artagnan, tended to remain at the very least in the same city or, at the very most, a day’s travel from him. Since the loss of his beloved Constance, this has been especially true, except for one or two occasions. 

It always warmed his heart when he thought of his little brother’s loyalty and steadfastness towards him, and it definitely went both ways. He had once said that they were a lot alike and the many decades together as friends had proven that over and over again. They each had their own lives, but no matter what they were always intertwined in some way. He couldn’t imagine going through the years and decades to come without d’Artagnan by his side as his best friend and brother. 

No matter which of his friends would find out first, Athos is convinced that tempers would flare and angry words would be exchanged. Much depended on how the story played out, how much their histories had been altered or remained intact, when it came to how each of them would react. 

Athos set down the current day’s issue, having just finished re-reading it in the context of the rest of the story published thus far. He wasn’t sure he cared for the way he’d been portrayed up to this point, and he doubted the others would either. 

Not wanting to cause discord, Athos made the difficult decision to remain mum on his discovery for the time being. If any of them asked him about _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ he would not lie, but he would not volunteer the information either. There was no use causing difficulties amongst them unless absolutely necessary, especially not after the last time. 

Suddenly, he heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. The only person who would defy all past and present etiquette like that was d’Artagnan. Granted, he’d given the younger man permission years ago to come and go as he pleased, but that was beside the point. 

Athos knew he had only moments before d’Artagnan would find him and quickly set to hiding the evidence of his decision. He just barely managed to shove the pile of newspapers into his desk drawer when d’Artagnan comes into the room. 

As the two of them spoke of their students and how best they could help the new class improve their forms at the _salle d’armes_ , Athos tries not to think of the newspapers shoved into the bottom drawer of his desk. 

In all the years they have been friends and brothers, he has always tried to do his best for all four of them, to keep them safe from unwarranted attention and free from persecution. He has not always been successful, but so far they have trusted him to lead them through these seemingly never-ending decades of life. 

There have been times when being apart, spread throughout the world had been best to maintain their brotherhood over the long haul. They were all together now in the same city for the first time in years, and he did not want to risk division amongst them before he absolutely had to. 

He just wished the author of this damned fiction would’ve chosen different names for his characters, and either adhered more closely or strayed even further from history. What was the man thinking writing such a story? Sooner or later the others would find out and all hell would break loose. 

It was the aftermath which concerned him the most. Could their brotherhood withstand such a challenge? 

ooooooo 

As luck would have it, the story is a huge success, earning high praise from its readers and accolades for its author. Athos reads every installment and often cringes at the changes and embellishments to history – both his personal history and to reality in general. 

He spends his days no longer reading the _Gazette_ or his other papers, but dreading that the others will find out about the story and how they will react to it, as well as his decision to hide its existence from them.

 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

**Historical Notes, Chapter Two** : 

**_-Préface_ :** On 14 March, 1844, _Le Siècle_ published the Preface and part one of Chapter One, _Les Trois Présents de M. d’Artagnan Père (The Three Presents of d’Artagnan the Elder)_ , of _The Three Musketeers_.

**_-“Memoirs…Tréville and the ‘garrison’”_ :** The items on this list were mentioned in the issues of _Le Siècle_ published on the 14, 15, and 16 March 1844.

**-Hôtel-Dieu:** Located in Paris and dating back to around AD 651, this is one of the oldest hospitals still in operation today. 

**ooooooo**


	3. 14 April 1844

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Three: _14 April 1844_**

 

Twenty-five days later, the first of his friends finds out that _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ is being published in the newspaper. 

For more than three weeks, Athos has been uncharacteristically tied up in knots about his decision to keep the existence of that damnable quasi-historical fiction from his friends. He still believed that it was the right thing to do, but as time had gone by and the days had turned into weeks, the guilt he felt continued to increase about the lies he has to tell in order to keep the peace. 

Because he sees d’Artagnan every day at the college, he has a daily reminder of not only the story but of the lies he is telling to his best friend. D’Artagnan had noticed his change of behavior, and Athos had deflected, denied, and then finally told an outright lie to get the younger man off of his back. He had claimed it to be near the anniversary of his brother’s death, which was almost true, and that someone he’d passed by on the street had looked just like Thomas, which was not at all true, reminding him of days he wished he could forget. 

D’Artagnan had been understanding and offered to keep him distracted so that he didn’t once again fall back into the habit of overindulging in drink as he is wont to do every couple of decades when the idea of possibly living forever became too much for him. If he didn’t have his three friends in the same situation with him, then he probably would’ve lost his mind long ago and tried to find a way to die in which there would be no body left for his soul to inhabit. 

And yet, he now faced the very real prospect of being left alone again, depending on how his friends felt about the whole truth as he currently knew it. They had had their rough patches in the past and had discovered that they needed to be completely honest with each other if they were going to do more than simply exist for as long as God deemed it necessary. He had gone and betrayed that ideal for fear of their brotherhood imploding because of this ridiculous historical fiction in the newspaper. 

Each and every day he dreaded picking up and reading the latest issue of _Le Siècle_ , concerned over what he would find in that day’s segment. Which of their less admirable traits would be exhibited for all who wished to read about them? Just how far would history be bent and yet still contain more than an essence of truth? Did the author never wonder why none of them had yet confronted him about the lies and tall tales that had been written in each new part? More importantly, why hadn’t Dumas come to them by now? 

He had so many questions and not nearly enough answers to satisfy his mind or ease his conscience. The days when there were theatre reviews and not a new installment were much less stressful, but only served to delay the answer to the question: When would the truth come out? 

Athos looked up from the final page of that day’s installment – Chapter 18 _, L’Amant et Le Mari*_. He knew d’Artagnan was not going to like the fact that the first time he had told Constance that he loved her had been used for fodder for _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ , despite the fact that what had been described was not at all how it happened in the first place. 

Even after all of these years, d’Artagnan still greatly missed the love of his life. She had been the first woman he had ever truly loved, aside from his mother, and Constance’s death had devastated him. Though it’s been around 200 years since she had died, his younger brother still descends into melancholy from time-to-time, especially when certain anniversaries came around. 

Porthos had once said that d’Artagnan’s dark moods since Constance had passed away rivaled and sometimes surpassed Athos’s own. Athos, having the most experience with such moodiness had attempted to stay by his friend’s side during those times, though sometimes that had not gone over very well. 

A few times, he had been too late to keep d’Artagnan from dying due to misadventures caused by too much alcohol. He hated to see his brother like that, but it was a terrible fact of their lives: all of their loved ones grew old and died while they did not. Longevity of life – reaching 50 years old back when he was born – might be considered a blessing, but in their case it was a curse. 

ooooooo 

The sound of his front door slamming shut dragged him back to the present. 

“Athos!” 

D’Artagnan sounded angry. No, more than that; he sounded absolutely livid. He could think of only one thing which could possibly make his friend thus. 

Athos closed his eyes briefly as he tried to steel himself for the confrontation to come. He should have known d’Artagnan would discover the existence of the story first. Aramis may be in a better position to hear about it as a physician while caring for his patients, but both he and d’Artagnan work at a college, and young people these days love the serials being printed in the various daily papers. It was quite possible that d’Artagnan had overheard a conversation about _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ from any number of his students. 

“Athos!” 

“Here,” Athos replied as he set the current day’s newspaper down upon his desk and rose to meet his probable doom. 

This was d’Artagnan; if the younger man asked about the story, he would not lie. If he could help it, then things would not deteriorate like last time when— 

D’Artagnan rushed into the room looking disheveled from obviously having taken his outer coat and hat off in a hurry. His stomach sank when he saw that his friend was holding a crushed newspaper of what he could only assume was a copy of that day’s issue of _Le Siècle_ in his hand. 

“I am going to kill him!”—D’Artagnan tossed the crumpled paper down onto the desk and pointed towards it—“Have you seen this? How dare he write this…this _trash_?” 

His friend started walking back and forth in front of his desk as if he were a caged animal. After another moment, d’Artagnan stopped and stabbed his finger towards the newspaper. 

“Do you know what this is Athos?” the younger man asked, though he did not wait for an answer. “Our friend, our _brother,_ has written about us, and yet these men”—d’Artagnan smacked the flat of his hand on the wad of newspaper—“are but pale imitations of us, mere shadows whose lives all too closely reflect our own.”

D’Artagnan turned away and walked a couple of steps towards the sitting area and fireplace while running a hand through his short-cropped hair. It had been years since his friend had cut it and he was _still_ trying to get used to it. 

“He said he would never write about us in any way that we’d readily recognize and yet”—d’Artagnan gestured back towards the desk—“he’s used our real names, wrote about the first time…” 

The Gascon turned his back and took the final steps towards the fireplace, resting an elbow upon the mantel and bowing his head. 

“Athos, he wrote about the first time I ever told Constance that I loved her.” 

He couldn’t stand the pain in his friend’s voice any longer and moved out from behind his desk. When he reached d’Artagnan, he laid a hand on the younger man’s upper back, before moving it to squeeze the juncture of the shoulder and neck. D’Artagnan acknowledged his poor attempt at comfort by tilting his head towards his hand, briefly touching his chin to the hand before straightening up again. Athos smiled slightly and squeezed his friend’s neck once more before letting go. 

Even after all these years, gestures of comfort and affection were difficult for him, but d’Artagnan managed to bring out that side of him more often than not. In return, d’Artagnan never remarked on his less than stellar efforts, simply accepting what was offered and responding with a small gesture of his own. It seemed to work for them, and that was all that mattered. 

“When Porthos assumed Dumas’ identity* and began publishing, I had seen the odd similarity to our own exploits, but that…that…story goes much too far.” With a growl of frustrated anger, d’Artagnan continues, “I’m going to kill him for this.” 

“D’Artagnan.” 

“Well, why not?” the younger man asked before letting out a humorless chuckle. “It’s not like he won’t come back to life. At least then there would be no more of that balderdash*.” 

“I’m sure Porthos had a good reason for delving into our shared history in order to write _Les Trois Mousquetaires_.” 

The moment he said the words, Athos realized his mistake. 

“How did you know that it… Unless… Athos, did you know about this?” d’Artagnan asked as he strode over to the desk and grabbed the paper, holding it up between them. “Did you?” 

“Yes,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“How long?” 

From the tone of voice, it was obvious that d’Artagnan was attempting to keep his temper in check. 

Athos took a steadying breath and replied, “Since the fourth chapter.” 

“And today’s part is…?” 

“The eighteenth. Twenty-five days.” 

D’Artagnan’s expression was beginning to evolve away from simple anger. “ _Twenty-five_ days?” 

He opened his mouth to explain but instead ended up nodding his agreement. 

“But… Why? You said after that last time, that…”—d’Artagnan raises his hands as if to avoid his touch—“I’m sorry, but I can’t be here anymore. I can’t…” 

His friend turns towards the door of his study and takes two steps before stopping. Without looking back, d’Artagnan said, “I’m sure you had a good reason not to tell me, Athos, but for now…” 

After those final words, d’Artagnan walked out of the room. 

When he could barely hear the door being closed instead of it being slammed shut, it was more than enough to let him know just how disappointed and hurt and angry d’Artagnan was with him. 

“I’m sorry, Brother,” Athos said to the empty room. 

He then turned towards his liquor cabinet and wondered if he had the strength to not drink the entirety of its contents. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

**Historical Notes, Chapter Three** : 

**_\- L’Amant et Le Mari_ :** [translation] _Lover and Husband_. The 14 April 1844 issue of _Le Siècle_ also contains the last part of the previous chapter – _Le Ménage Bonacieux (Bonacieux at Home)_.

**-Balderdash:** Senseless talk or writing; nonsense. (Also, a fun board game.)

**_-“When Porthos assumed Dumas’ identity…”_ :** Just so we’re all on the same page, I wanted to note that, through an event not described in detail in this story, Porthos takes over the Alexandre Dumas identity upon the man’s death. In the television show, Porthos is of mixed race as was the real Alexandre Dumas. 

**ooooooo**


	4. 15 April 1844 and 22 April 1844

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Four: _15 April 1844_ -and- _22 April 1844_**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**15 April 1844  
**

Because of his hangover the next day, Athos just barely makes it to the college on time to teach his classes. 

He sees d’Artagnan, but the younger man acts as if they are merely polite acquaintances and not as if they have known each other for more than 200 years. Normally, they are thick as thieves, but not on this day and he is more than aware that their behavior has not gone unnoticed. Thankfully, his reputation for his crotchety and cantankerous disposition prevents anyone from approaching him about the unusual behavior. 

That evening is when he most notices d’Artagnan’s absence, making him regret his decision to remain quiet about _Les Trois Mousquetaires_. It was a rare night that his younger brother did not come over for the evening; at least once or twice a week, d’Artagnan ended up staying the night as well. 

Aramis and Porthos seemed to be adapting to this time period better than him and d’Artagnan, and it had been a comfort to be able to share their distaste for many modern inventions and conventions. Thank God for their teaching positions. They were able to keep up their skills for what they seemed born to be – soldiers. 

Though, since the Revolution, they had not been too keen on serving in a military that had such a hand in the murder of many of Aramis’s descendants*. Aramis had kept track of his descendants, though he had never attempted to interfere in their lives until the Revolution. Having failed to save his family, Aramis had been devastated by their loss. Though others in his line survived, the loss of his direct descendants through his first son with Queen Anne had been difficult to accept. Since then, Aramis had refused to be a soldier or have anything to do with serving the current government, content to be a physician or a priest, depending on where his heart was leading him at the time. 

Athos had attempted to get in touch with both Porthos and Aramis, but so far he’d not had any luck. Aramis was off doctoring a poorer section of the city that was dealing with some sort of minor outbreak. His friend would only be available once the danger had passed. Porthos proved he had not lost any of his skills for remaining out of sight of the ‘enemy.’ He was certain that Porthos was aware by now of the fact that he had three men, assuming Aramis knew of the story, who were quite angry with him. 

At one locale, Athos thought that he had beaten Porthos to a possible hideout at a tavern only to find out that he’d missed his friend by a mere fifteen minutes and, surprisingly, d’Artagnan by ten minutes. He’d not been able to track down any more leads since then, and couldn’t decide if he was more disappointed to have missed catching up with Porthos or d’Artagnan. 

Remaining out of touch for so long suggested that Porthos was quite conscious of the fact that he’d wronged his closest friends and brothers. Athos hoped Porthos would show himself before much more time went by. In his mind, the longer the man stayed away, the more damage it was doing to their brotherhood.

 

ooooooo

 

**22 April 1844**

After a week, Athos couldn’t stand it anymore and headed towards d’Artagnan’s small apartment. It wasn’t in the nicest part of the city, but d’Artagnan had become more than used to not having much space to himself or even that many possessions to his name. 

All those years ago when Labarge had razed d’Artagnan’s farm to the ground*, it had left the Gascon with almost nothing in possessions or money, forcing him to get by in life with very little to his name. Living as a soldier for so many decades, in what was often cramped quarters, had made him realize that he didn’t need much to have a good life. 

Even when he’d been married, possessions did not matter much to him; only his love for his wife was what truly mattered. He’d had Constance and that had been more than enough for him. Everything they had possessed as a married couple Constance had either already owned or they’d bought when the need arose. 

Once his wife had passed away, d’Artagnan had sold everything – almost everything. To this day, his brother still had the many letters they had written to each other while he’d been away at war. He also had a few pieces of Constance’s jewelry to remember her by, with one piece currently acting as part of a fob for his pocket watch. 

ooooooo 

Suddenly and uncharacteristically unsure of himself, Athos stood in front of d’Artagnan’s door without knocking for what seemed an age. D’Artagnan had every right to be angry with him. Secrets, even those kept with the best intentions, always came back haunt the one keeping them, and in the long run, they tended to hurt rather than protect. He really had no excuse for what he’d done other than he’d done it in order to spare his brothers any unnecessary pain. He had been protecting them for so long, that he couldn’t help but do anything necessary, even at the expense of his own happiness.

Their…conditions and the consequences had already done so much damage to his friend’s well-being, his young friend simply hadn’t needed a glaring reminder of all the bad times in the form of a _roman-feuilleton._ Would d’Artagnan accept his apology and forgive him? 

Those terrible years they had all spent apart from each other are some of the worst of his life, and he had no desire to repeat any of them just because Porthos had so carelessly used their names and lives for fictional fodder. 

He lifted his hand to knock on the door once more; it was probably the fifth or sixth time since he had arrived that he’d done so. Just as he was about to lower his arm again, the door was wrenched open from the inside. Before him stood d’Artagnan, his white shirt untucked, the sleeves rolled up, and his bare feet sticking out from the bottom of the trousers he’d seen d’Artagnan wearing earlier in the day at the college. 

As he slowly lowered his hand, d’Artagnan’s expression quickly went from utterly blank to exasperated. 

“For God’s sake, Athos, get in here,” d’Artagnan said, stepping forward and grabbing his shoulder to propel him into the apartment. 

In great contrast to how his friend had opened the door, d’Artagnan gently closed it. The lean Gascon slipped past him in the narrow hallway and then turned back slightly to gesture Athos forward, ending up in the too-small sitting room. 

When he reached the fireplace, he turned and saw that d’Artagnan was standing in the middle of the room with his hands resting on his hips and his head held high. Everything he was going to say fled his mind, but it mattered not as d’Artagnan began to speak. 

“I’m surprised you held out this long.” 

“You are angry – rightfully so. I also wanted to give you some space.” 

“Our students most definitely noticed. I’ve lost track of how many of them have asked me about it”—d’Artagnan turned towards a small cabinet sitting under the window, reaching for a crystal decanter, pouring some Armagnac into two glasses, and handing one to him—“To be honest, I think I was more annoyed by that than what you’d done by the time Friday came around.” 

Athos released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, finally able to take a sip of the Armagnac brandy that they both preferred. 

He sat in one of the chairs before the fire, his legs feeling a little unsteady. If he was reading his brother right, he was well on his way to being forgiven. 

“I understand why you did it; you always feel like you need to protect us but dissention in the ranks has never helped us, Athos. You know this. We’ve had to endure division before and I would prefer to be united in purpose.”—d’Artagnan sat next to him in the room’s only other chair—“We need to keep our little family together despite the world changing and growing older without us. As far as we know, we are immortal. I don’t want to be alone in this, do you?” 

Athos shook his head. “God, no, d’Artagnan.” 

He took another drink from his glass, draining it. Looking down into it, the firelight made the remnants of the liquid glow within the glass. “I don’t ever want to…” 

“Me neither, Athos. This why we need to be honest with each other no matter what. We four are all each other has for as long as God deems it so. I can’t lose you three – not again.” 

“I just wanted there not to be conflict amongst us. I thought not knowing would spare you pain.”—Athos sighed—“I was wrong and I apologize.” 

D’Artagnan leaned towards him and stretched out his hand. Athos gripped it and laid his other hand on top of both of theirs for a moment before letting go. 

“I apologize as well. I should have given you a chance to explain, but well”—he smiled and shrugged—“you know me—” 

“Head over heart, my friend, _not_ the other way around.” 

“I’m getting better.” 

“Yes, you are, and it only took you 200 years.” 

“Hey!”

 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

**Historical Notes: Chapter Four :**

**-15 April 1844:** _Le Siècle_ published _Revue des Théatres_ instead of the next installment of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_.

**-Aramis’s descendants** : I am following the television show’s conceit that Aramis is the father of Louis XIV, therefore Louis XVI who was King of France at the time of the Revolution (1789-1799), would be a descendant. Louis XVI was executed via guillotine in 1793.

**-22 April 1844** : _Le Siècle_ published chapter 24 – _Le Pavillon_ (The Pavilion).

**\- “ _Labarge had razed d’Artagnan’s farm to the ground_ …”:** A reference to episode 1.08, _The Challenge_ , of the television series. 

**ooooooo**


	5. 23 April 1844

**Chapter Five: _23 April 1844_   **

The next evening, d’Artagnan was at his house and they were back to their usual routine – almost. Instead of a relaxing evening conversing or sitting quietly enjoying each other’s company, his friend was obsessing over the Musketeers story. The air seemed to be thick with tension as d’Artagnan continued to catch up with the story via the copies of _Le Siècle_ that Athos had retained since he first found it in the paper. 

Every once in a while, his young friend would mumble some barely intelligible comment or grumble about something that he obviously did not agree with. There were even a few times in which d’Artagnan had thrown down the paper in frustration regarding something Dumas had altered in such a way as to make the fiction an insult to the reality of the situation. Athos had quickly learned not to ask for clarification after d’Artagnan had let loose his long-winded opinion about the servants Porthos had written in and how impractical they would have been to their lives as soldiers*. 

Regardless of how history had been altered, the story was bringing back unpleasant and bitter-sweet memories for the both of them. For him, it was anything to do with his wife, Anne, and for d’Artagnan, it was Constance. Thankfully, his brother, Thomas, had not yet been mentioned in the story, but he didn’t know how long that would last. 

So much had been altered and yet their exploits all those years ago were clear to see by anyone who was aware of the actual history. Questions about Porthos’s thought processes cycled once again through his mind. They needed answers which only their friend could provide. 

He looked towards d’Artagnan and saw that the younger man seemed to be close to being caught up with the back issues of the story. Athos was about to get himself a drink when he heard someone knocking on his door. 

D’Artagnan was so engrossed in the newspaper that Athos didn’t think his friend had even heard the sound. He made his way down the short hall and opened the front door. It was raining outside, which served to obscure his caller’s features, but he knew that stance anywhere. 

“Aramis!” Athos said, surprised yet happy to see his friend. 

“Athos.” 

He motioned Aramis inside and quickly shut the door. Aramis set his physician’s bag down and straightened up before taking off his dripping wet hat and coat, hanging them on the coat rack by the door. 

Running a hand through his slightly-damp hair, Aramis said, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.” 

“And I hear that you’ve been helping to contain an outbreak.” 

“Diphtheria,” Aramis said, nodding his head once. “I’ve just come out of quarantine.” 

Athos almost forgot himself and asked about the death toll, but managed to rein his question in on time. One death or twenty, Aramis takes each one hard, feeling guilty for not being able to save his patient. Even after doing everything possible given the medicines and treatments available at the time, there was still some guilt involved. 

Each new advancement in medicine only served to remind Aramis of his unpreventable failures over the years. They had eventually discovered that it was best to let the subject of the patients Death had claimed to drop, not mentioning them unless Aramis did. Calling no attention to the losses helped keep Aramis from wallowing in despair and imagined failure over them. 

Passing through the hall and into the sitting room, he can see that d’Artagnan was just folding up a newspaper. His friend looked up, and upon seeing Aramis, d’Artagnan grinned and stood to give the man a hug. D’Artagnan pulled back first and let a critical eye roam over the physician. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

Aramis patted d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “I will be.” 

D’Artagnan looked skeptical of the answer. When the younger man’s eyes darted his direction, Athos shook his head slightly in response, hoping to convey that that line of inquiry should not be pursued. The Gascon’s eyes widened and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod in return. The younger man finally understood what was going on with Aramis. 

By this time, Aramis finished pouring himself a drink and had sat in the other chair by the fireplace. D’Artagnan resumed his seat and started making sure the newspapers were in order by date. 

Aramis ran a hand through his hair and sipped from his glass. “So, what did you need to see me about?” 

Athos exchanged a brief look with d’Artagnan, who dipped his head once towards the newspapers, indicating that they were in order. 

He took a seat on his settee, shooting Aramis a glare for stealing his chair; his friend gave him an unrepentant shrug and cheeky smile in response. Aramis detested the settee, calling it a crime against both good taste and good furniture, while Athos thought it was functional and certainly comfortable enough, though he most definitely preferred his chair. As a result, there had been this on-going, silent war over who would get to sit in one of the chairs and who would have to put up with sitting on the settee. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d had to give up his chair in the past several years. 

Athos thought about stalling for time, and managed a few seconds by sipping at his own drink, but in the end couldn’t justify any more delay. He could only hope that this went better than when d’Artagnan had found out about the story. 

“Have you heard what our friend, Alexandre Dumas, has been working on lately?” 

“Not really. The last I knew was that he was thinking about a story set partially on the island of Corsica.* Why?” 

“So, you’ve not seen the newspaper lately?” 

“Nothing recent. _Why_?” 

Athos gestured towards the stack of newspapers sitting relatively neatly on the table in front of them. D’Artagnan grabbed the one from the top and handed it over to Aramis. 

Their friend started scanning the contents, and it was obvious when he came to the relevant section. 

“Porthos, you promised.” 

There was something about the way that Aramis spoke that made both him and d’Artagnan take notice. 

“Did you know about this?” d’Artagnan asked, barely containing his emotions. 

Aramis was reading the newspaper, but the man obviously does not miss the tone of voice, because his head snapped up to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze. 

“You can’t think… I swear I didn’t know. All he mentioned was the Corsica book and another idea”—Aramis lifted a hand to rub his eyes—“Uh, something about a man who escapes a prison.* He _never_ said anything, gave any sort of hint…” 

Aramis sighed and downed the rest of his drink. “How bad is it?” 

“Bad enough,” d’Artagnan replied. “My parents are still alive. Constance is already one of the Queen’s ladies. How we met is completely different and makes each of look like fools.” 

“He’s taken our actual history and combined it with fiction”—Athos gestured to the newspaper lying in Aramis’s lap—“and you can see that he has used our real names.” 

“He promised—” Aramis quietly began. 

“Yes he did,” d’Artagnan said, “but apparently the money and accolades are more important than the brothers he’s known for over 200 years.” 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos said, knowing the younger man was almost on the brink. 

“There has to be some explanation for all of this,” Aramis said, gesturing to the stack of papers on the table. 

“He _said_ he wouldn’t use our names and he did,” d’Artagnan said, abruptly standing. “He _said_ he wouldn’t write about things we would readily recognize or our private lives… And he’s lied about that too!” 

D’Artagnan walked away and started pacing back and forth across the room behind the settee. Athos could feel his friend’s distress and sympathized with his anger over the use of their personal lives in the story. It was one thing to use their missions, but quite another to reveal their private lives to the world. 

“I have read every issue, and while I’m thankful some details have been altered, others are not and are serving to bring up memories that we’ve struggled to put behind us.” 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said. “If I had known…” 

“Are you sure you didn’t?” Athos asked, having realized something that had been bothering him for days, ever since he had re-read the story published to date. 

“Of course not! Why—?” 

“Why? Because I read something in an earlier chapter that I think only _you_ knew about.” 

“What?” 

Athos turned towards d’Artagnan and reached out a hand to snag the younger man’s arm. D’Artagnan glared at him, but he ignored it, raising an eyebrow in return. 

“D’Artagnan, did you ever give the recipe to your mother’s balm* to anyone?” 

“No one but Aramis, except for confirming that wine was an ingredient to you, Athos.” A look of comprehension steals over d’Artagnan’s face. “Who else have you told Aramis?” 

“I may have told Porthos once when I was drunk.” Aramis both looked and sounded guilty. 

Mumbling what Athos thought were Gascon curse words, d’Artagnan stormed over to the windows. 

“I have heard that Dumas works with someone who helps with the research and the story outlines. Is it you?” Athos asked. 

“Sort of,” Aramis replied, bowing his head. 

“What the hell does that mean?” d’Artagnan asked as he marched back towards them, sounding more than done with this situation and ready to force some straight answers. 

Athos held up a hand. “D’Artagnan, please.” 

His young friend threw his hands up in frustration and practically collapsed back into his chair, crossing his arms and staring into the flames of the fireplace with a mulish look on his face. 

“Explain,” Athos said, feeling just as frustrated but succeeding in keeping his temper. 

“It’s not one person helping Dumas but two – Auguste and Maquet*.” 

“Auguste?” Out of the corner of his eye, Athos sees d’Artagnan sit up straight. “But that’s—?” 

D’Artagnan lunges from his seat towards Aramis and Athos just barely intercepts him in time to hold him back and keep the younger man from doing something he would later regret. 

Meanwhile, Aramis had got up and out of the way to stand on the other side of the room. 

“I think you need to explain yourself better,” Athos said, still holding d’Artagnan back. 

Aramis held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. I apologize.” 

Bowing his head, Aramis took a deep breath before continuing. “When Porthos and I meet up, we usually end up discussing the old days, followed by him telling me his ideas for stories. Or sometimes, I share an idea that I’ve had. I also generally keep him from stepping too far over the line in terms of resemblance to our lives.”—Aramis’s hand slashed through the air—“That’s it. That’s as far as I’m involved given how busy my practice can be at times.” 

As his friend explained, he can feel some of the tension in d’Artagnan’s body bleed out, enough to let him go. He could tell the Gascon was still frustrated but not about to snap again. They looked at each other and d’Artagnan dipped his head in acknowledgement that he won’t go after Aramis again. 

The younger man sat down and drained what little remained of his glass of brandy. Aramis, apparently having seen this, goes over to the liquor cabinet and brings the decanter of brandy back to the seats in front of the fire. Aramis refilled his own glass and handed the decanter to him before they sat down again. Athos refilled d’Artagnan’s glass before his own. 

“I’m a sounding board while Maquet helps with everything else. Porthos does all the dialogue and description.”—Aramis stared into the flames for a moment before a fond smile graced his face—“Have you ever seen him write? So, so fast. The ideas just flow out of him like a rushing river after a heavy storm…” 

Aramis shook his head a little as if to bring himself back to the present. “I told him that I didn’t need any credit or recognition. It was his idea to combine the names.”—he let out a huff of laughter—“I don’t even have any idea what Maquet’s Christian name actually is.” 

“How did you not know about _Les Trois Mousquetaires_?” Athos asked. 

“Since the last time I saw you both, the last time I saw Porthos, I’ve been hip deep in patients. I’ve barely had the time or energy to sleep and eat, let alone read any newspapers.” 

“Do you know where he is? We’ve not been able to track him down in weeks.” 

“You’ve tried all the usual haunts?” Aramis asked. 

Athos nodded. “The ones that still remain standing.” 

“Not the places built there later?” 

He looked towards d’Artagnan, who shook his head slightly. Apparently, that idea hadn’t occurred to either of them. 

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry”—Aramis yawned and rubbed at his eyes again—“but I am utterly exhausted and need food and a bed, though not necessarily in that order. Could we continue this tomorrow?” 

“Of course,” Athos replied, noticing for the first time just how tired and run down his friend was. 

“It’s not like we can do anything else until we find him,” d’Artagnan said, clearly unhappy with the situation. 

“This is Porthos,” Aramis said. “Something is not quite right. _Veritas nos liberabit._ *”

 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

 **Historical Notes: Chapter Five :**

**-23 April 1844:** _Le Siècle_ published the first part (of three) of chapter 25 – _Porthos_.

 ** _-“[His] opinion of the servants Porthos had written in and how impractical they would have been to their lives as soldiers.”_ :** I am aware that there is a long tradition of military officers having servants (or lower-ranked soldiers) attend to them both on and off the battlefield. However, in the context of the television show’s first two seasons, I don’t see how including Grimaud (Athos’s servant in the novel) and the others would’ve worked given the already large cast list.

 ** _-“[A] story set partially on the island of Corsica_.”** : This is a reference to a novella Alexandre Dumas wrote called, _The Corsican Brothers (Les Frères corses)_ , which was also published in 1844.

 **-“ _Something about a man who escapes a prison_.”:** This is a reference to _The Count of Monte Cristo (Le Comte de Monte-Cristo)_ , a novel Alexandre Dumas also completed in 1844.

 **-Balm** : Mentioned in Chapter 1, _Les Trois Présents de M. d’Artagnan Père (The Three Presents of d’Artagnan the Elder_ ) of the novel. “[D]’Artagnan…asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary…”

 **-Auguste Maquet:** (1813-1888). Collaborated with Dumas in writing _The Three Musketeers_ and its sequels, as well as other stories and plays. It is said that he would outline the plot and characters while Dumas wrote the dialogue and details of each story.

 ** _-Veritas nos liberabit_ : **[translation] “The truth shall set us free.” 

**ooooooo**


	6. 27 April 1844, Part I

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Six: _27 April 1844_ , Part I**

Four days later, the three former Musketeers finally have a solid lead to Porthos’s location. Athos hopes that the final part of the man’s namesake chapter being published that morning is a good sign that the lead would pan out and they would soon find their friend. 

One of Aramis’s patients, who is an avid admirer of Alexandre Dumas’ works, had spotted the author outside of a house on the Rue du Vieux-Colombier* in what is now the sixth arrondissement. It had been some years since the old Musketeers garrison had been torn down and houses had been built in its place, so it had never occurred to either him or d’Artagnan that Porthos might have a place near the same location. 

ooooooo 

When the three men stepped up to the front door, both Aramis and d’Artagnan looked in unison towards him to take action. Athos glared at them for a moment, wondering why he had to be the one to knock. Rolling his eyes, his lifted his hand and grabed the ornate door knocker, banging it twice before letting go. 

Looking back at his friends as they waited for someone to open the door, he saw that they were nervous. It made him realize that he was also apprehensive at seeing Porthos. There have been disagreements amongst them more than once throughout the years, some causing them to go their separate ways for a time, but he hoped for a better outcome this time around. 

Keeping secrets from each other tended to be the cause of the majority of their rifts, but on a rare few occasions, they had fought on opposite sides in a war. He never wanted to be put in the position of having to fight his brothers over land or other petty squabbles amongst rulers ever again. He didn’t think his soul— 

He was startled out of his thoughts by a servant opening the front door. 

“Can I help you?” the servant asked. 

“Yes, Is Po— Is Monsieur Dumas in residence?” Aramis asked. 

“I apologize, Messieurs, but Monsieur Dumas is extremely busy and has asked to not be disturbed today.” 

The servant began to close the door, but d’Artagnan surged forward, wedging his boot in the opening. Putting a hand on the door, d’Artagnan pushed it open, forcing the servant to step back even as they stepped through the entrance and into the foyer. 

Athos took off his hat and handed it to the servant, who shocked to speechlessness, simply took it in hand. “He will want to see us. We have business of the utmost importance to discuss with Monsieur Dumas.” 

Looking nervous and indecisive, the servant continued to stare at the three of them. 

“If you would kindly lead the way,” d’Artagnan said, gesturing towards the hallway. 

“We would be ever so grateful,” Aramis added. 

A moment later, the man blinked and dazedly led the way to a room at the end of the short hallway. In Athos’s opinion, the servant had never had a chance against the three of them and he wondered how well Porthos got along with the older man. 

When the servant opened the door, the three former Musketeers were confronted by a bright room hung with wallpaper the color of buttercups and embossed with an unusual design. 

“Monsieur,” the servant said after clearing his throat. “These men are here to see you.” 

At the paper-strewn desk, which was perpendicular to the massive window, was the hunched-over form of their friend writing furiously on a sheet of paper. It was apparent that Porthos had not heard his servant or even noticed that he had visitors. 

The servant let out a noisy huff of frustration before kicking the desk. “Monsieur!” 

“Huh, what?” Porthos replied as he raised his head from his work and looked directly at the servant. “Planaud,* I told you not to disturb me unless it was for the evening meal – or a fire.” 

“Yes, Monsieur, you did, but these gentlemen”—he swept a hand towards the door to indicate their presence—“urgently need to speak to you.” Planaud leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They insisted…quite strenuously.” 

Porthos meanwhile had turned his attention to his visitors. The grin on the man’s face broadened until Athos thought it would cause his friend harm, but then grin began to fade until he looked faintly ill as realization stole into his eyes. 

“You can go, Planaud. _This time,_ I mean it about any further disturbances.” 

Planaud dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of the order. “Yes, Monsieur.” 

The servant quickly retreated, closing the doors to the study as he left, while Porthos stood and started around his large desk. Before any of them could realize what was happening, d’Artagnan without saying a word stepped forward and punched Porthos. 

Either d’Artagnan hit Porthos exceptionally hard or his friend was off balance, because the hit caused the man to drop to the ground, a loud thunk filling the room when his knees hit the wooden floor. 

For almost a minute, everyone stood stock-still, but Aramis was the first to begin moving again, while he surged forward to prevent d’Artagnan from escalating the violence. Kneeling at Porthos’s side, the physician was checking the area d’Artagnan had made contact with, already seeing a bruise begin to form. 

“How dare you?” d’Artagnan asked as if each word were its own sentence. 

D’Artagnan struggled to escape, but Athos made sure to keep a strong grip on his friend’s arms. When the Gascon attempted to wrench one of his arms from the grasp he had on it, they locked eyes. Athos made sure to convey with a look that d’Artagnan needed to calm down and give Porthos a chance to explain. At first, d’Artagnan glared defiantly back, but eventually his shoulders sagged and he dipped his head once in acquiescence of Athos’s silent request. 

Athos removed one hand, and when he saw that his young friend was calm enough for the present, he let go of the other arm, moving that hand up to gently squeeze the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. D’Artagnan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, opening his eyes again as he exhaled. His friend’s mouth curled in a slight smile of gratitude. 

By the time Athos had refocused on what else was going on in the room, Aramis had already moved Porthos over to sit on the large settee along the wall opposite the windows. 

Porthos lifted a hand to his jaw and grimaced. “Brother, I am so sorry. I never—” 

“Tell me – _us!_ – Dumas. Why did…? What…? When were—argh!” D’Artagnan threw his hands up in the air, obviously frustrated with not being able to form a complete thought due to his rage. 

No matter how angry they had ever been with each other, none of them dared to be so careless as to not use their aliases where other people could overhear – especially now with the publication of the story that has caused all this conflict amongst them. 

“I didn’t mean to. I swear it on my mother’s soul,” Porthos said, standing up from the settee. “I didn’t mean to _ever_ write this blasted story.” 

“Then why?” Athos asked, knowing that Porthos would not have invoked his mother’s soul if he were not telling them the truth. 

Porthos lifted a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Maquet. He found my journal, or rather, he found one of my journals – an early one.” Dropping his hand, he lowered his head. “I started it after I…you know, for the first time. I didn’t know – none of us knew – how it would affect our memories over time, so I started writing down the odd bit or two about”—Looking up, he gestured to the four of them—“Back then just a word or a phrase, something to help me remember but not enough to cause trouble.” 

“Or so you thought,” Aramis said. 

Porthos glared in Aramis’s direction for a moment before his shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Maquet was delivering some research he’d done for me on prison escapes* when he came across my journal.” 

“Dumas,” d’Artagnan said, exasperation weighing the name’s syllables down. 

“I know,” Porthos said. “I should’ve made sure it was locked away with my other things or—” 

“Not written at all. You promised, my friend,” Aramis said. 

“I did, and I fully intended on keeping that promise*, but…” 

“But what?” Aramis asked. 

“Maquet barged into my office one day and asked me about the journal. He seemed really excited by what he’d read, thinking it was notes for another novel. At the time, I just went along with it to keep him from getting suspicious.” 

“Why not just say you didn’t want to pursue the idea?” Athos asked. 

“The first page. I wrote down the words _memoirs_ and _d’Artagnan*_ —” 

D’Artagnan stepped into Porthos’s space, making Athos wonder if he would have to hold his friend back again. “Don’t you _dare_ blame any of this on me.” 

Porthos held his hands up in surrender and took a step backward. “I’m not. I’m not. It’s just Maquet wanted to scour the Library* for a copy of something that doesn’t exist.” 

Walking over to the desk, his friend picked up a pile of papers. “You know him. Likes his research; likes to be thorough.”—Porthos let out a humorless laugh and dropped the stack of papers back onto the desk.—“So I told him that a conceit of the idea was to make the reader think it was somewhat true by stating it had come from memoirs, ones that didn’t actually exist.” 

“And he bought that?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“He loved the idea so much, he practically begged me to write it.” 

“And here we are,” Athos said. 

“Not exactly. I told Maquet that I’d lost interest in the idea and wasn’t going to write it, but the idiot said something in front of the editor of _Le Siècle_ and”—Porthos shrugged—“there wasn’t much I could do after that.” 

“Alright, fine,” Aramis said. “You were backed into a corner and had to write the story… But why use our names? You could’ve easily changed them.” 

“I did!” Porthos replied, anger stealing over his expression. “I did. I changed all the names I could but Maquet went behind my back on the first issue, changed them back…and then it was too late.”—Porthos sank into the desk chair—“When I confronted him, he said the new names weren’t distinct enough.” 

“Why did you not warn us?” Athos asked. 

“I didn’t even know for the first two days, and once I did, it was too late. I had to use our – _those_ – names from then on. After that, I didn’t know how to tell you. I knew you’d be so mad”—Porthos lifted a hand to his bruised chin for a moment—“Then I got so busy with keeping this story going, collaborating with Maquet on the Corsica story,* and starting to plot out another story, that I’ve hardly had time to use the water closet, let alone meet all of my deadlines.” 

Porthos leaned forward and hid his face in his hands for moment before standing. 

“I just didn’t know how… It wasn’t entirely my fault, but I still… I still feel like it was.”—Porthos came out from behind his desk to stand in front of them—“Will you guys ever forgive me?” 

“Do we have to forgive Maquet?” Aramis asked in a flippant tone of voice. 

Athos raised his eyebrow towards Aramis before facing his repentant friend. “You should have come to us sooner, Brother.”—he glanced towards a nearly expressionless d’Artagnan—“It never ends well otherwise.” 

“I know,” Porthos said. “I am truly sorry. Uh, you may have noticed that I’ve been altering _our_ history…” 

“And actual history as well,” Athos said, which Porthos acknowledged with a dip of his head. 

“So you thought starting the story in the year of our Lord 1625* was a good idea?” Aramis asked before involuntarily shivering. 

“Sorry, Auguste, but I have my reasons. I swear I will never mention Savoy.” 

Aramis looked relieved as he said, “Thank you.” 

Porthos dipped his head again and smiled slightly. Athos sensed that Aramis had already forgiven their brother for what he’d done. He had as well for the most part, though with the introduction of Milady as a character, he couldn’t promise that wouldn’t change in the future. In his mind, Porthos would have to tread very carefully with how he dealt with certain characters and story lines. D’Artagnan though seemed— 

His young friend made a frustrated sound and threw his hands up in the air. D’Artagnan then slowly shook his head and mumbled, “Figures.” 

Before he could question the comment, d’Artagnan abruptly turned and left the room. 

Athos exchanged a glance with both Porthos and Aramis. 

Porthos looked confused. “What?” 

Aramis rubbed a hand over his beard. “Constance.” 

With Porthos’s explanation of his actions, he had nearly forgotten d’Artagnan’s main issue with the story. 

“I’ll go,” Athos said and rushed out the room.

 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

**Historical Notes: Chapter Six :**

**-27 April 1844:** _Le Siècle_ published the last part (of three) of chapter 25 – _Porthos_.

**-Rue du Vieux-Colombier** : The end of Chapter 1 of _The Three Musketeers_ establishes the location of Tréville’s office on this street; I’ve decided that the garrison (from the TV show) was located there as well.

**-Planaud** : A combination of Grimaud and Planchet, two of the servants’ names from _The Three Musketeers_. Grimaud was Athos’s servant, while Planchet was d’Artagnan’s servant.

**-Prison escapes:** Another reference to _The Count of Monte Cristo (Le Comte de Monte-Cristo)_.

**-“ _I fully intended on keeping that promise_.”:** Though it’s not explicitly stated in this story, when Porthos took over Alexandre Dumas’ identity and continued the man’s writing profession, he promised that he would not write about his friends in any way that would be recognizable. By using their names and personal lives for the characters, Porthos broke that promise even though he didn’t have much choice.

**_-“[M]emoirs_ and _d’Artagnan”_ :** This is a reference to the Preface chapter of _The Three Musketeers –_ “ _I stumbled by chance upon the Memoirs of M. d'Artagnan…_ ”

**-Library** : A reference to the Bibliotheque Nationale de France, one of the oldest libraries in the world. It is through their digitized collection of _Le Siècle_ that I have been able to see/read the serialized version of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_.

**-Corsica story:** Another reference to _The Corsican Brothers (Les Frères corses)_.

**- _“[S]tarting the story in the year of our Lord 1625_ ”:** The Three Musketeers begins in the year 1625. However, the television show’s timeline states that 20 Musketeers were massacred in Savoy that same year – something which _did not_ happen in the novel. Aramis was one of the only survivors of that massacre (Episode 1.04, The Good Soldier). One of several reasons that Porthos begins the novel in 1625 is to help prevent Macquet from learning the truth of the journal’s origins. **  
**

**ooooooo**


	7. 27 April 1844, Part II

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Seven: _27 April 1844_ , Part II**

Athos emerged from Porthos’s house and looked down the street. D’Artagnan was walking at a fast pace away from the building. Even at a distance, he could easily translate his friend’s body language and saw that frustration, resignation, and no small amount of melancholy were warring for dominance. 

He attempted to catch up, but it was no use with the Gascon’s long legs and determined step. Instead, he followed keeping an eye out for trouble since d’Artagnan was barely paying attention to his surroundings. 

After a while, he recognized the route they were taking, and Athos practically wanted to kick himself for not realizing it earlier. 

Église Saint-Gervais-et-Saint-Protais* was where his friend’s beloved wife had once been buried*. Now certain of d’Artagnan’s destination, Athos slowed down to a more leisurely rate, wanting to give the younger man some time alone first before intruding upon him. 

Even at his slower pace, it didn’t take very long for him to reach the church. During the day, the doors are always wide open and he was able to slip inside the large edifice without drawing attention to himself. He then detoured off to the side in order to visit a person very dear to him. 

Reaching the ornately-carved funeral monument, Athos looked up into the stone face of his friend and mentor, Captain Tréville*. He smirked at the thought of how much Tréville would have hated all the fuss made over his death and was certain that the man would have much preferred being laid to rest within the Musketeers’ cemetery. However, based on the man’s many years of faithful service, King Louis had insisted and they could not deny their monarch. 

Athos thought back to the time he first met Tréville and was still grateful the man didn’t immediately dismiss him for being so severely hungover that he could barely stand straight on his first day as a recruit. He’d had the money to purchase a commission, but didn’t care enough to bother. He was counting on the Musketeers as his ticket out of his misery of a life. 

Captain Tréville had patiently, with the help of both Porthos and Aramis, dragged him out of the mire of his guilt and helped him gain his commission the ‘hard’ way. He owed his life and the discovery of his family of choice to the man and it seemed, given his…condition, that he would indeed be _forever_ grateful. 

Judging that he had given d’Artagnan enough time by himself, Athos stepped up to the fairly accurate sculpture and laid a hand on its base. 

“Thank you, Captain.” 

As he walked away, his fingers gently trailed the remaining length of the tomb until they slipped off as he continued on his way towards his friend, who was likely sitting near the front of the large church. 

ooooooo 

Athos found d’Artagnan sitting exactly where he expected – in the exact same pew that the young man had occupied the day of Constance’s funeral. 

When Constance had finally succumbed to her illness, d’Artagnan had not had the money for a proper grave marker. He had adamantly refused any offers of financial help to pay for a stone, settling on a simple, wooden cross engraved with her name, years of life, and a small Musketeer-style fleur-de-lis. 

Normally, the symbol was reserved for soldiers past and present, but an exemption had been made for Constance. She had helped the Musketeers in one way or another until the very end, and had more than deserved that simple accolade. 

For three days after her burial, d’Artagnan had refused to move from the gravesite, and one or more of his brothers had kept watch over him the whole time. Worried beyond measure over d’Artagnan’s lack of sustenance of any kind, as well as refusing to sleep or communicate with anyone, Athos made the hard decision to force the issue. 

When d’Artagnan woke up in Athos’s rooms, the younger man had realized right away what had happened. Surprising everyone in the room, d’Artagnan had said nothing and instead suddenly launched himself at Athos. Before d’Artagnan could swing more than once, landing a glancing blow to his jaw, Porthos had managed to restrain the younger man until he calmed down. 

After Porthos let go of their friend, d’Artagnan turned and pushed Porthos away from him before walking out the door, not closing it on his way out. By the time the three of them had found d’Artagnan again, the younger man was more than half-dead from exposure and starvation. When d’Artagnan had finally regained consciousness and coherency, he’d said, “I’ll never see her again in this life – or the next – will I?” 

Athos had been at a loss for words, for he had wondered the same thing more than once over the years since they had discovered their immortality. Would they never be reunited with their loved ones in the afterlife? 

A multitude of platitudes came to mind, things he could say in order to lift his brother’s spirits, yet he ended up blurting out a completely unhelpful, yet honest reply. 

“I don’t know, Brother. I don’t know.” 

D’Artagnan had locked eyes with him for the longest time after he’d said that before eventually nodding once and closing his eyes, going back to sleep. 

After that, he seemed to gradually improve, though they would often find him at the grave of his beloved Constance. 

ooooooo 

When Athos had stepped close enough, he saw d’Artagnan’s head tilt slightly towards him, letting him know that the man was aware of his presence. 

“It’s alright,” d’Artagnan said as he moved over to make room in the pew. 

He accepted the indirect invitation and sat down next to his friend, making sure to sit close enough to have their shoulders touching. 

For a while, they just sat there, saying nothing. Athos found the place to be just as peaceful as every other time he had found d’Artagnan sitting in this pew. He also enjoyed just being in the presence of his younger brother, though he would prefer that they were sitting in the comfortable chairs before his fireplace drinking wine rather than remaining on the hard, wooden pews. 

“This is Porthos,” d’Artagnan quietly said, breaking the near silence. “That’s what Aramis said all those years ago when Porthos was accused of murdering de Mauvoisin*. I wasn’t quite sure what Aramis had meant by that at the time, which I think you knew, but I had it figured out by the end of that mess. Porthos would never intentionally hurt someone outside of the line of duty or self-defense.”—d’Artagnan lifted a hand to run through his hair, letting it drop back into his lap before completing the action—“I know he didn’t do it deliberately, but he _should_ have let us know instead of putting one of us in position to lie to the others or for any one of us to have to accidentally find out on our own.” 

“I agree,” Athos finally spoke, having guessed that d’Artagnan needed to vent more than he really expected an answer. 

“Did he think we wouldn’t ever find out about that blasted story?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Did he think we wouldn’t mind that our lives were put out there like that?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Athos?” 

“Yes.” 

“Not helping.” 

“My apologies,” he said and then sighed. “I guess I’ve just had a little more time to get used to the idea of this messed up situation.” 

D’Artagnan nodded. “I’m still a bit angry with you about that.” 

“Good,” Athos replied. “I’m still a bit angry with myself.” 

“Athos, don’t,” d’Artagnan said, turning slightly to face him, managing to keep their shoulders touching. “You have always only ever wanted to keep us together. I remember those lonely years… They were…and I… I’d rather not repeat them either.”—d’Artagnan’s shoulder bumped against his—“Besides, I think you’re stuck with me for a good long while yet.” 

He returned the shoulder bump. “I thought it was the other way around?” 

When d’Artagnan smiled in return, he asked, “Are you ready to head back?” 

The younger man sobered and turned to look up at the crucifix upon the altar. After a moment, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he released it, he opened his eyes, and said, “Not really, but I think we should go anyway. God only knows what kind of trouble those two can get into in our absence.” 

In concert, they stand up, and in an eerie echo of his earlier movement at Tréville’s monument, d’Artagnan trailed his fingers along the back of the pew that they had been sitting in, letting them drop as they entered the main aisle of the nave. 

ooooooo 

The moment he and d’Artagnan stepped back through the door of the house, they could hear Porthos and Aramis laughing out loud. They shared a look, and he saw amusement grace d’Artagnan’s features for the first time in much too long. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes when another raucous laugh reached their ears from across the house. 

As they walked towards their friends, Athos contemplated if it had crossed either Aramis or d’Artagnan’s minds that from a narrative standpoint, there was still much more of the story to be told. If they thought the scenes stolen from their history was too much now, how would they react when further private moments and secrets were revealed in upcoming chapters? 

He was absolutely certain that circumstances had worked against Porthos in writing _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ , however he didn’t think Dumas could entirely avoid the more…sensitive moments of their lives for future chapters. He couldn’t help wondering how invasive Porthos would end up being in order to finish his tale. Would they be warned before the more difficult parts of their lives were laid bare for the masses? 

Athos knew that they wanted to forgive Dumas’ trespass upon their personal lives, but it would be difficult to completely do so until the last chapter was written and published. 

When he and d’Artagnan entered the room, his other two friends were sitting on the settee still chuckling, but the laughter immediately stopped the moment they were spotted. Porthos and Aramis exchanged their own glances and seemed to be as in tune with each other as ever. 

When Tréville had ordered him to work with the pair for a mission, Aramis and Porthos already seemed to be a great team. He had felt an intruder and a disruption to their dynamic no matter how well they had all worked together or how easily they got along with each other. Even after they had become close friends, there were times that he still felt the outsider when he was with them. It was nothing that the other two did or said, but just a feeling he got from time to time. 

When d’Artagnan had come along, he imagined the younger man had often had the same feeling about the three of them, that he was an interloper who didn’t belong and wouldn’t be accepted. Yet, he had been accepted; it was as if their team of three had been incomplete until the younger man had come along. Despite his fiery Gascon temperament, d’Artagnan had managed to provide a balance that none of them had been aware that they had needed. Athos had no longer felt that he was an interloper though he would never admit that fact to Aramis and Porthos. 

Many times they would naturally split into two groups when not on missions – Porthos with Aramis and him with d’Artagnan. During missions, it didn’t matter how they divided up when they’d had to because they all worked well together in any combination. They balanced each other and always would, their strengths and weaknesses complimenting each other, making them seemingly unbeatable. 

However, over the decades, he and d’Artagnan tended to gravitate towards each other, while Aramis and Porthos did the same. His two friends were content to wander and explore the earth by themselves or as a pair when it came time to move on and change identities, where he was much less inclined to do so. D’Artagnan was the wild card and would always remain so, though his friend seemed to prefer his company more often than not. 

Aramis collaborating with Porthos on these stories was unexpected, but in another light, it made perfect sense. Aramis had been with Porthos when he had taken over the Dumas identity and had ‘encouraged’ the man to finish the story the real Dumas had been working on when the accident had occurred. 

At first, they had not known the man was an author, but once it became apparent, Porthos did not really have much choice: he either continued to write or he didn’t. The publishers had certainly wanted more, and Porthos had just needed to figure out how to construct a plot and tell a story in written format. 

Porthos had always loved learning new things, and his friend had taken to writing fiction like a duck to water. Their friend had always been a natural storyteller, and his first endeavors as Dumas were successful, prompting him to continue in that profession. 

Given the circumstances surrounding the origins of this Musketeers story, there was much from their personal and shared histories that could be mined. No matter how Porthos went about it, this story was going to cause friction amongst them. He sincerely hoped that their friendships would survive this latest test. 

Porthos sobered after the shared glance with Aramis, who also schooled his features. Dumas stood and moved to lean against the front of his desk, facing all three of them. 

“I would like to apologize for not telling you about the journalor _Les Mousquetaires_ * … I should have told you. If I had, then maybe we could’ve come up with a better plan and prevented all of this trouble. We’re always best when we’re together, yeah?”None of them could deny that fact and said so. 

“A little warning would’ve been nice, Brother,” Athos said. 

“I will try, but I don’t always know where the muses will take me with an idea or story.” 

“Dumas, I have a question for you.” Porthos gestured for d’Artagnan to continue. “Why did you call the story _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ when there are four of us?” 

Porthos chuckled. “You need to pay more attention to the details. D’Artagnan has yet to earn his commission* and is attached to the King’s guards under des Essarts*.” 

D’Artagnan was obviously not happy with the answer despite the truth that it had been some time before gaining his commission from King Louis. However, Athos felt that there was more to the answer. 

“Really?” he asked. 

Porthos looked down and shrugged. “It was another distraction, another attempt at keeping Maquet from digging deeper. To make him believe that the main characters are drawn from people I know and not people from history.” 

Athos nodded his understanding of Porthos’s plan and hoped it worked. He really didn’t want to think about what would happen if it didn’t. 

“And will d’Artagnan ever earn his commission?” d’Artagnan asked, bringing his attention back to his friends. 

Porthos grinned broadly and clapped their young friend on the shoulder with enough force to make him lose his footing slightly. He couldn’t help but grin as d’Artagnan glared and pushed back, while both Porthos and Aramis laughed aloud. 

When Porthos finally regained control, he replied, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

 **Historical Notes: Chapter Seven :**

**-Église Saint-Gervais-et-Saint Protais:** located in the fourth arrondissement of Paris on the Place Saint-Gervais. The current church was built between 1494 and 1657. Today, it is the headquarters of the Monastic Fraternities of Jerusalem.

 **-“ _Beloved wife had once been buried_ ”**: By 1780, the cemeteries of the oldest sections of Paris were full to overflowing and burials within the city were forbidden. Eventually in 1785, a decree requiring the removal of all remains was issued and an ossuary (“municipal ossuary”), now called the Paris Catacombs was created. Disused limestone quarries under the city in the Tombe-Issoire district were renovated and restored so that the remains could be placed there, starting with the Holy Innocents’ Cemetery (Cimetière des Saints-Innocents). Today, it is possible to visit a two kilometer section of the catacombs. Though Constance may have been buried on the grounds of St. Gervais in the late 1600s, her remains were no longer there by 1844.

 **-Funeral monument [of] Captain Tréville** : Captain Tréville is the fictionalized counterpart of the real-life Jean-Armand du Peyrer, Comte de Troisville/Tresville (1598-1672).                     At the end of the second series of the TV show, Tréville accepts the position of Minister of War for France. From what I’ve been able to find out in my research, there was no exact position of that name at that time. Before 1626, there was the position of Constable of France, the commander of the French army, but it was eventually suppressed. There was also the title “Marshal of France” which was bestowed upon generals for exceptional achievements, and after 1626 became de facto head of the army, though there were multiple men of this rank, so I’m not sure how that worked.      The positions of Secretaries of State, including War were created in 1547. The list of Secretaries of State for War that I found begins in 1643, and I could find no names for that position (or to a similar position) prior to that year. Michel le Tellier (1603-1685) was made Secretary of State for War from 1643 to 1666.        For the purposes of this story, I have appropriated the tomb/funeral monument of Monsieur le Tellier in Saint Gervais to stand in for that of Captain Tréville. It seemed a fitting substitution given the fact that M. le Tellier was in office at around the same time as the Tréville of the television series. I’ve tried to find out where the monument is in relation to the interior of the church, but have had no luck and have improvised that part. (No offense was meant to M. le Tellier or his descendants.)

 **-“ _Porthos was accused of murdering de Mauvoisin_ ”:** A reference to episode 1.05, _Homecoming_ , of the television series.

 ** _-Les Mousquetaires_ :** Porthos purposely leaves out the word “Trois” from the title.

 ** _-“D’Artagnan has yet to earn his commission…”_ :** In the novel, this occurs towards the end of Chapter 47, _Le Conseil des Mousquetaires (The Council of the Musketeers),_ with the relevant portion published in _Le Siècle_ on 12 June 1844. In the television show, this happens in episode 1.08, _The Challenge_.

 ** _-“…attached to the King’s guards under des Essarts.”_ :** This occurs towards the end of Chapter 6, _Sa Majesté le Roi Louis Treizième (His Majesty King Louis XIII)_ , with the relevant portion published in _Le Siècle_ on 26 March 1844. **  
**

**ooooooo**


	8. 8 July 1844

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Eight: _8 July 1844_**

Constance is dead. Murdered by Milady. 

Several days back when he’d read that Milady had ended up at the same convent as Constance,* Athos had a very bad feeling steal over him. As the story continued to unfold, that bad feeling had only increased, and he could tell that d’Artagnan was experiencing something very similar, though the younger man had refused to talk about it. 

When he had picked up the newspaper and had read that Milady had poisoned and killed Constance, Athos knew he would have to get to d’Artagnan as soon as possible. He couldn’t believe that Dumas would do this to d’Artagnan. He couldn’t believe that someone who was their friend would make d’Artagnan relive one of the worst days of their overly-long lives. 

As with other events in the story, Constance’s death did not happen as it had been related, but it was close enough that he could only imagine how d’Artagnan must feel at the moment. Constance had been taken by illness, which could be considered a poisoning of sorts. D’Artagnan’s reaction and many other details were simply too close for comfort. The declaration of vengeance at the end of the chapter did nothing to alleviate his bad feeling. 

What the hell had Dumas been thinking? Would this be the final straw which would cause their brotherhood to collapse for all time? 

ooooooo 

As soon as Athos finished reading, he quickly sprang into action even as he wondered if d’Artagnan had even made it past the part of the story where his beloved had died. 

He went to his desk and wrote notes to the headmaster of the college they both teach at and to the master of the salle d’armes, excusing both him and d’Artagnan for the next several days. He didn’t bother with an excuse, simply disclosing that something of a personal nature had to be taken care of that required d’Artagnan’s help to accomplish. By taking the blame for his friend’s absence, if there were any repercussions from all the days that he suspected they would be absent, then the consequences would hopefully fall solely on his shoulders. Even now he couldn’t help but try to protect his brother. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so furious with any of his brothers, though he suspected he could guess if he truly thought about it. Porthos had seen first-hand just how badly Constance’s death had affected d’Artagnan, how bad things had gotten, and yet Dumas had included the heartbreaking event in his story. 

Suddenly, a thought entered his mind at the speed of a bolt of lightning flashing across the sky: Would d’Artagnan have gone after Porthos regardless of the consequences? 

Worried for d’Artagnan’s state of mind, Athos quickly headed out to look for him. His first stop was the house on Rue du Vieux-Colombier, but while Porthos was at home, d’Artagnan had not visited – yet. 

When the servant showed him into Dumas’ study, he can tell that Porthos is well aware of what he has done to their friend. For that reason alone, Athos strides right up to the man and, without warning, punched Porthos. The hit was hard enough to drive Porthos to his knees, and it was more than a few minutes before his friend was sufficiently aware to converse with him. Porthos offered his help in finding d’Artagnan but Athos refused, not knowing what would happen if the two were to see each other. 

Porthos began to apologize once again for what he had written, but Athos refused to hear it. 

“Tell that to d’Artagnan,” he said, practically spitting the words out from behind clenched teeth. “You didn’t have to include that particular piece of his history, bringing that time back to him like that.” 

“Would you rather I reveal the real history of Constance’s abduction by Milady and the subsequent battle?” 

“Yes!” Athos said, very nearly shouting. Lowering his voice, he continued, “Then at least Constance would still be alive in the story and not…” 

“I had to change things to keep us safe; you know this!” 

Athos leaned in towards Porthos and stabbed a finger into the man’s chest. “What I know is that I would’ve found another way. Failing that, I would have personally warned him rather than leaving him to find out on his own.” 

Porthos looked down and nodded once. “Perhaps, but it’s done now. There’s nothing I can do about it.”—his expression changed into one of regret—“Just like there’s nothing I can do about the next three chapters*.” 

A chill ran down his spine at those words. “What have you done?” 

“I’m sure you have guessed some of it. Milady has killed Constance and committed various other crimes. I have the Musketeers go after her and try her for her crimes.” 

Athos can feel himself paling at those words. There was only one conclusion he could conceive of. “Execution?” 

Porthos nodded. 

He had no idea what his expression looked like, but Porthos seemed to pale a bit as a result, looking almost as sick as he felt. Athos could let this news hinder him in his search for d’Artagnan. He could allow himself to get enraged and hit his author friend again, but he decided that it was just not worth fighting over at the moment. 

D’Artagnan was hurting and alone somewhere in the city. He must leave now; he must find his younger brother because he feared the promise d’Artagnan made to him all those years ago would be broken. Besides, in the days to come, he had a feeling that he wouldn’t be much good to anyone and would rather not be alone. Perhaps he and d’Artagnan could be miserable together. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor would it likely be the last. 

Porthos said something, but he couldn’t seem to hear the words, only registering that the other man had made a sound. Athos ignored the sounds, ignored the hand that tried to grab his arm as he left the house. His one thought and goal was to find d’Artagnan. 

The next most logical place where he thought he would find his hurting younger brother was Saint Gervais. However, he was more than a little surprised to not find his friend anywhere on the premises. A hundred possibilities flow into his mind at that point of where he could find d’Artagnan, but only one feels like it was the right place. 

When he arrived at d’Artagnan’s small apartment, he was both relieved and unnerved to find his brother sitting in his chair in front of a stone-cold fireplace. The younger man was slouched deep into the chair, his right arm dangling over one of the armrests with a glass in his hand. Athos was half expecting the glass to fall to the ground and shatter at any moment given how loosely d’Artagnan appeared to be holding it. 

“I expected to find you at the cemetery,” he said, fighting a wince at the idea of breaking the silence and disturbing the troubled man in the chair. 

D’Artagnan doesn’t say anything; instead, he lifted the glass to finish the alcohol before leaning over to set it down on the ground next to a bottle. It was difficult to tell if there was anything left in the bottle, and a quick glance around the room wasn’t enough to tell him if any other bottles of alcohol had preceded that one. 

“I was there for a while, but I promised you I wouldn’t…”—d’Artagnan shrugged—“I’m here now.” 

Pride, relief, and more wrestled within him to come to the fore. He was thankful that he wouldn’t have to live through that time again. He wasn’t sure he _could_ go through it again. 

For now, they came back to life after each time they died. Each time he held one of his brothers in his arms as their lives ceased was difficult enough that waiting for them to come back to life was almost beyond what he could handle. It didn’t matter how many times he had witnessed the miracle. He would prefer never to see any of his friends die ever again, but knew he couldn’t do anything to stop Death and that it would happen again regardless of his wishes. 

That time with d’Artagnan in the cemetery still gave him nightmares, and he’d asked the younger man to promise him to never let despair overcome him in such a way ever again. So far, d’Artagnan has kept his word. If he was going to break it, then this would have been a most appropriate day. 

“What are you going to do?” Athos asked as he approached his friend. 

“Drink.” 

“Want to be alone?” 

“No.”* 

The words from so long ago had come out of his mouth without any true thought, even though he had taken on d’Artagnan’s part. When his brother had replied, saying his part from back then, Athos couldn’t help the smile that curled his lips slightly. 

D’Artagnan had helped him that night, just by being there for him as he had dealt with the news he’d overheard about Milady being the King’s new mistress. It had taken far too long, but finally he could properly return the favor. 

Athos picked up the bottle next to d’Artagnan’s chair; he found it to be a decent vintage and slightly less than half full. 

“How about you come back to my house? We can have something to eat and then see if we can’t drink my liquor cabinet dry.” 

After a moment, d’Artagnan looked up at him, a single tear escaping his eye to run down his cheek as he did so. Gratitude shone from the younger man’s eyes as he said, “Thank you.” 

“You can return the favor in a few days’ time.” 

As expected, confusion erupted on d’Artagnan’s face at his words. 

He gestured for his friend to get up out of the chair. “I’ll explain later.” 

“Am I going to want to hit Porthos again?” 

“Possibly,” Athos replied. While he was protective of all of his brothers, d’Artagnan was especially protective of him when it came to anything related to Anne. “I thought you might go after Porthos, so I went to his place first. I was worried what you might do.” 

Athos could see in d’Artagnan’s eyes that the younger man had indeed considered going to Porthos’ place. D’Artagnan stopped moving in the middle of putting his overcoat on and he lifted his head to look at him with an expression he interpreted as a request to continue. 

“I hit him – on your behalf.” 

D’Artagnan laughed, a slight smile remaining on his face as he finished putting his coat on. “You were so worried last time and talked me out of worse and yet you...”—d’Artagnan chuckled mirthlessly—“And _I’m_ the one who has problems with heart over head.” 

He felt uncomfortable, the guilt of hitting Dumas beginning to take hold within him. Then he began to wonder if his friend might not be a little angry over what he had done. Had he exceeded his reach in wanting to protect and defend the younger man? 

“I apologize if I overstepped. I just couldn’t believe he would do that to you and my fist flew of its own accord.” 

“Maquet—” 

“There is always another way. Dumas could’ve tried harder to find it.” 

D’Artagnan nodded and suddenly looked as if he was trying to swallow an apple whole. It made Athos reconsider his offer to have his friend stay with him for the night. 

“Would you consider staying with me until _Musketeers_ is complete? I have a feeling that I won’t react well to what is coming.” 

His younger brother looks at him for a long moment; Athos makes sure to not hide his emotions behind his usual stoic mask. 

Looking slightly worried, d’Artagnan nodded his assent. “Sure. Let me just go grab some clothes.”—his friend heads off towards the small bedroom—“I’ll be back in a moment.” 

As he listened to d’Artagnan moving around in his bedroom, Athos considered the good fortune of not being alone in his immortality. Without his brothers, what kind of person would he be now? He shuddered to think of the concept any longer than the fleeting moment it took the question to enter his mind. 

Athos could see that d’Artagnan was still hurting despite the brave front adopted since he first arrived, but they had been down this road before and it had only been by supporting each other in times like this that they have managed to maintain their humanity after so many years of life. In the coming days, the two of them would likely be put through the emotional wringer but at least they won’t have to go through it alone. 

Through it all, the good and the bad, they have had each other and always will. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

**Historical Notes: Chapter Eight :**

**-8 July 1844:** _Le Siècle_ published the second part (of two) of Chapter 63 – _Un Goutte d’Eau (A Drop of Water)_.

**-“ _Milady … same convent as Constance_ ”:** This happens in Chapter 61 – _Le Couvent des Carmélites de Béthune (The Carmelite Convent at Bethune_ ). Published beginning on 4 July 1844 in _Le Siècle_.

**_-“[T]he next three chapters.”_ :** [Spoilers for the novel] Chapters 64 through 66 deal with the capture, trial, and execution (permanent) of Milady.

**_-“What are you going to do?” … “No.”_ :** This short exchange between Athos and d’Artagnan was lifted directly from episode 2.04, _Emilie_ , of the television series. (The episode was written by Adrian Hodges and Ryan Craig). **  
**

**ooooooo**


	9. 15 July 1844

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you would like to see more of the Immortals AU. While writing, I came up with plenty of ideas for more stories, and wouldn’t mind expanding on them if there’s any interest. Thanks!

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Nine: _15 July 1844_**

Two and a half months ago, d’Artagnan had burst into his house worried about whether or not he was sufficiently coping with the revelations of the most recent chapter of Dumas’ story*. Partially mirroring that time, his front door was suddenly thrown open and he and d’Artagnan hear Porthos and Aramis worriedly calling out their names. 

ooooooo 

Two days ago, within the confines of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ *, Milady was executed for her numerous crimes, not the least of which was the murder of Constance. In many ways the scene Dumas described was much worse than the day he had had Anne taken out to be hanged after she had murdered Thomas, and in other ways it was a much kinder death than what had really happened*. 

Two nights ago, he proceeded to get as drunk as possible for the first time in years in order to drown out his memories – good and bad – of his wife. At one point, there was an indistinct shape hovering above him that he thought might have been d’Artagnan, looking extremely concerned. 

The next thing Athos was aware of was when he was rearing back to sit on his knees, feeling a hand grasping his shirt collar and sputtering freezing-cold water out in shuddering breaths. Wiping water out of his eyes, he saw a bucket sitting on the floor in front of him, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see d’Artagnan kneeling next to him. 

Over the next hours, his spotty recollections were filled in by d’Artagnan. The previous day’s newspaper did not include the next installment of Dumas’ story*, and the two ended up spending the day anticipating the next day’s, which would contain the part he had been dreading ever since Porthos had warned him about it. 

The newspaper had not arrived by the time d’Artagnan proposed going to the market for some more food and wine. The younger man had hurried out in hopes of getting back before the new issue was delivered. Unfortunately, an accident in the marketplace had delayed his returning long enough not only for the paper to arrive, but for Athos to have to read it alone. He should’ve waited for d’Artagnan to return, but he couldn’t help himself. He _had_ to know how Milady’s execution would play out in the story. 

His imagination had come nowhere close to reality. 

D’Artagnan found him already one full bottle into his cups and looking to go as deep as he could into them. His brother managed to prevent him from going completely overboard and kept him distracted, though nothing worked for very long. That night, he managed to convince d’Artagnan that he was better and that he no longer needed to drown his grief in alcohol. It was an outright lie, and he proceeded to drink cupful after cupful of cheap wine. 

Having heard a noise, d’Artagnan had rushed downstairs and had found him on the floor, half-way between the settee and the sitting room door deeply unconscious and barely breathing. He still can’t remember what he had been doing at the time. 

After multiple attempts at waking him up, d’Artagnan had tried Athos’s method for curing hangovers: immersing his head in a bucket of cold water. It had worked and then he’d had to suffer the physical consequences of drinking to the verge of alcohol poisoning. D’Artagnan had stayed glued to his side for the rest of the night, finally admitting as dawn broke that Athos had scared him witless even though he knew his friend would not remain permanently dead should the worst happen. 

This time it was him promising to never let despair overcome him in such a way ever again*. 

By the time the issue of _Le Siècle_ with the next part of the story arrived, Athos’s head feels as if it was waiting for the slightest provocation in order to explode into a million pieces. For a few hours after his close call, he almost thought that he would be better off if his head would explode, though he refrained from mentioning that to d’Artagnan. His friend was angry enough over what had happened as a result of Dumas’ story. 

While he had been lying down and recovering on the settee, d’Artagnan had been busy creating a sort of nest for them in front of the fireplace. He gathered just about everything they could possibly need for the next couple of days in order to camp out. Athos couldn’t help but be impressed at what his young brother had done so that neither of them had to deal with what was left of the story alone. 

When the newspaper came, they sat with their backs against the settee on top of the mounds of bedding that had been gathered. Because Athos was too hungover, d’Artagnan read aloud what turned out to be the final installment of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_. 

The character of d’Artagnan escaped punishment from charges brought up by Cardinal Richelieu, the young man ending up with a blank commission for a lieutenancy. He tried to give it to each of his three friends and each of them refused it, with Porthos and Aramis informing d’Artagnan of their decision to leave the Musketeers. The Inseparables were to be no more. Athos ended up writing d’Artagnan’s name on the commission. 

_“I shall then have no more friends,” said [d’Artagnan]. “Alas! nothing but bitter recollections.”  
_

_And he let his head sink upon his hands, while two large tears rolled down his cheeks.  
_

_“You are young,” replied Athos; “and your bitter recollections have time to change themselves into sweet remembrances.*”_

As d’Artagnan read the final installment, his voice became huskier and more emotion laden. When his brother read about not having any more friends, d’Artagnan had to stop a couple of times, swallowing hard in order to continue speaking. 

Within the conclusion and epilogue are craftily written reminders of the lonely years, of what it was like when the four of them were not in accord and not in each other’s lives. By the way the words had affected d’Artagnan, he thought they were probably thinking the same thing: they needed to let the hurts caused by Dumas’ story go. They needed to remember that they were brothers first and that forgiveness was the only way they could survive as a family over the years to come. 

ooooooo 

When Aramis and Porthos barged into his sitting room with his and d’Artagnan’s names on the tips of their tongues, Athos thinks they must look quite the odd pair, camped out in front of his fireplace with everything they could need to be comfortable. 

The night before, they had spent a quiet evening in his sitting room. They ate and drank, though neither of them to excess. They played cards. D’Artagnan made another attempt to teach him to speak some English, which like every other attempt, had failed miserably. In the end, they spent much of the night talking and reminiscing, finally falling asleep shoulder-to-shoulder against his settee. 

Their friends’ yelling had awakened them, but their sleep-heavy limbs kept them from rising from their comfortable nest of bedding. Athos acknowledged their calls and had to keep from laughing at the confused expressions on his friends’ faces. D’Artagnan did not follow his example of restraint and laughed aloud as they finally rose from their comfortable nest to join their friends. 

Once d’Artagnan regained control of himself, Aramis explained that he and Porthos had been worried that they hadn’t heard from either one of them for close to a week. Porthos even voiced a poorly-timed joked that he had even expected that he would have had to dodge another punch from Athos. It had the unintentional effect of sobering them all up, causing an awkward silence to spread amongst them. 

Eventually, Porthos stepped forward to stand in front of him. “Athos, I want to—” 

He held up a hand to interrupt his friend’s apology. “There’s no need. I understand the predicament you were in, and though I wish you would’ve handled…certain events…differently, I forgive you.” 

Next to him, d’Artagnan nodded his agreement, causing Aramis to sigh in relief and then smile. 

“That’s...that’s great. Thank you – both of you.” Porthos fidgeted for a moment before blurting out, “I think I'm going to write a sequel*.” 

Before Athos could register what was happening, his fist was flying and Porthos was falling unconscious to the ground. 

Athos stepped around his shocked friends and started to head out of the room. 

“When he wakes, please tell Porthos that he is still forgiven.” 

ooooooo 

As he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, he thought of the personal history that Dumas could mine for the sequel. 

The war with Spain sat at the forefront of his memories. It was during that time that they had discovered their immortality. It was a difficult, confusing time of transition for all of them, and their brotherhood back then had been strong. 

In the many years since, they’ve encountered many challenges to that brotherhood. _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ was just the latest in a long line. He couldn’t help but wonder if this sequel would affect them as much as the first story had. 

He thought back to the times they had been separated due to conflicts amongst them. The lonely years… The years he would give almost anything to never again revisit. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he released it, Athos promised himself that he would do whatever was necessary to keep their brotherhood, their family, from fracturing in the future. He was determined to keep them united even if he, or one of his friends, had to hit Porthos yet again in order to keep the man from going over the line while writing the next story. 

They are immortal, and they are each other’s greatest strength and greatest weakness. Even so, they had been friends and brothers first. They are family by choice, and at this point, it seemed they were going to be family forever. 

Only together could they meet any challenges to come in the future – even a sequel to _Les Trois Mousquetaires_.

 

 **ooooooo**

_To End._

**ooooooo**

 

**Historical Notes: Chapter Nine :**

**-15 July 1844:** The day after the last part of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ was published. On 14 July 1844, the second and final part of Chapter 67, _Conclusion_ , and the whole of the _Epilogue_ was published in _Le Siècle_.

 ** _\- “[R]evelations of the most recent chapter of Dumas’ story.”_ :** This is a back-handed reference to a part of the story that I wrote but took out because I felt it was too repetitive in terms of the overall story.

\- **_“Two days ago, within the confines of Les Trois Mousquetaires…”_ :** A reference to the 13 July 1844 issue of _Le Siècle_ , which published Chapter 66, _Execution_ , and the first part of Chapter 67**, _Conclusion_. ((Note: The information relating to the ** is at the very end of the notes for this chapter.))

\- **_“[A] much kinder death than what had really happened.”_ :** [Spoiler for the book] In the novel, Milady is beheaded, her head and body gathered in a red cloak, and then thrown into the Lys river to sink to the bottom. I have no idea how or if Milady will die within the confines of the television show. The reference to a “much kinder death” is just a throw-away comment on quick deaths versus long, drawn-out ones.

 ** _\- “[The] newspaper did not include the next installment of Dumas’ story…”_ :** On 12 July 1844, _Le Siècle_ published _Revue Scientifique._ The 11 July 1844 issue leaves readers with a cliffhanger at the end of Chapter 65, _Jugement (Trial_ ). By the end of that chapter, Milady had been sentenced to death and was being forced towards the place of her execution.

 ** _-“[P]romising to never let despair overcome…”_ :** This is a reference to Chapter Eight of this story.

 **-“ _I shall then have no more friends…”_ :** Quoted directly from Chapter 67, _Conclusion_ , of the Project Gutenberg eBook edition of _The Three Musketeers_ by Alexandre Dumas.

 ** _-“I’m going to write a sequel.”_ :** The sequel to _The Three Musketeers_ was called, _Vingt ans après (Twenty Years After_ ), and was serialized in the newspaper from January to August 1845.

 

-** **Chapter 67** : In researching the dates the final chapters of the novel were published in _Le Siècle_ , I ran across an interesting alteration in chapter titles and lengths. Chapter 67 used to be titled _Un Message du Cardinal_ instead of _Conclusion_. I have no idea why the change was made for the publication of the story in book form. Today, the final three sentences of what was _Un Message du Cardinal_ are in Chapter 66 ( _Execution_ ), while the remaining part makes up Chapter 67, _Conclusion_. **  
**

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who read, commented, followed, left kudos, and/or bookmarked this story! I am very thankful for your support, and appreciate you taking time out of your busy lives to let me know your thoughts. Until next time.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Celticgal1041for your support and for proofing this story! Any remaining mistakes are my fault. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ((Cross-posted on fanfiction.net.))


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